Welcome!

I love Lagos. I never denied this. My bond with the city sits deep, the same way people in Sapele hold on to their local gin called Ogogoro. The affection I have for Lagos beats the commitment my Enugu people give to Okpa. The feeling pulls through my skin in a way I still struggle to explain.

Lagos plays like a long performance. The city operates like a stage filled with strange scenes. You live here, you risk your sanity at intervals. The triggers come from everywhere.

My dawn sleep ended often with a loud call to prayer from a nearby mosque. Other times it was the smooth voice of an Agege bread seller announcing hot bread. Both sounds marked the start of a new Lagos day.

Friday nights were never silent. A Pentecostal church two blocks away kept us awake with one thousand decibel speakers and shouts of fire. Sleep had no authority on nights like that. The street owned your ears.

A ride on a Molue trapped you in heat, sweat, noise, and stench. End of business hours brought the worst smell. Survival in those buses shaped your patience.

My boyhood sits in the memory of the city. It stretches across Mushin and every corner I walked through. I grew up in Mushin in the late nineties. The period came with raw events. One week, armed robbers sent a letter to warn us of their visit. The street prepared. We made bonfires for more than three weeks. We waited. They never came. Someone later confessed the letter was a prank from boys in the neighborhood. The whole area breathed out at once.

Children in Ilupeju, Maryland, and Anthony watched Captain America, Samurai X, Earthworm Jim, Godzilla, and other foreign heroes. My hero lived on my street. His name was Budossa. He was a ram. He was strong, fierce, and proud. I idolized him. Few children grew up with their hero five houses away.

His handler, Ogbeni La, trusted him with no hesitation. Every fight ended in Budossa’s favor. His horn behaved like a weapon. One charge from him dropped his opponent. The impact could crush the panel of a Picanto. People placed bets on him with full confidence. He never failed his supporters. Arsenal fans never knew that level of stability. Budossa ruled Mushin. He was king of three straight wins. He was lord of the rams.

Every morning, before school, I touched the hair on his body. I slipped out of the house to pay respect. It became a ritual. It shaped my routine.

Years later, my family moved out of the neighborhood. When I returned to visit, someone told me Budossa died a few years after we left. The news sat heavy on my chest for weeks. It felt strange to lose a ram that shaped so much of my childhood.

The story stays with me. Lagos gave me chaos, noise, and trouble. It also gave me memories I use to measure parts of my life.